What's the Worst That Could Happen?
by Wraithlike
Summary: Aoife, impoverished Irish actress, and Paula, aggressive learner driver and artist somehow end up on that fateful trip into the factory. Who knew there could be so many answers to one rhetorical question? Enter for Wonka-glomping, Charlie kicking, etc.
1. Chapter 1

**Notai faoi an sceal. LEAMH, FANACHERS!! ;)**

~Being Poor Really Sucks~

oOo

In all honesty, Aoife and Paula were far too old for anything to do with Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory, except to giggle over it's owners unfortunate name.

And in truth they were even too old to do that. But they did anyway. They didn't take much notice of anything around them, because, in all honesty, how much time do Irish fifth year students really have to themselves, especially when one is a poor drama student, and the other is a lunatic learner driver?

And so, it was unsurprising that they discovered the contest precisely four and a half days before the closing date.

But first, take a walk down memory lane, to a February afternoon, a Friday, as it was, with a glorious two and half days of freedom stretching ahead of the two Irish teenagers …

oOo

Paula had crashed the car. That, and that alone was the reason she and Aoife had to walk back to her house. It had nothing to do with the fact that she had failed her provisional test, or that fact that Aoife had screamed four decades of the rosary the last time Paula had driven her anywhere, or even the fact that her parents were investing in two lawyers to examine the Constitution, looking for some loop-hole to render their daughter unable to legally attempt driving for at least another four years. It was just being fixed. And that was all.

The puddles lay thick of the ground as Aoife and Paula splashed moodily through them, swaddled in the ugly school scarves and mossy green jackets they were incarcerated in for far too long, it being supposedly Spring.

The best friends were carrying out an in-depth conversation when we happen upon them.

'… telling you, Paula, I'm so poor, it's not even funny. Damned recession! No one can afford to go to the theatre any more, and theatre is all I can do these days! Still a student, trapped by the confines of my bank-account, and lack of good Irish movies … I'm telling you, Paula, some day, I'm going to blow this joint, and live in Hollywood! … or maybe not. Hollywood's kind of superficial.'

'Okay, am I the only one who just got a really clear mental picture of you detonating Ireland with a massive stick of dynamite?'

'Um … I'd say "_yes_", but then again, I can only vouch for myself,' Aoife said, in a superior way, flipping her long dark plait over her shoulder, and sighing.

'God, our lives are so freaking boring, Paula. What happened? We used to be cool!'

'Yeah. Life really sucks once you hit seventeen. And don't have a boyfriend. OMG, DEEEEAN!'

Paula squealed and stabbed the air in front of her with one highly polished fingernail, in the direction of a skulking figure. Aoife, the only one in glasses peered short-sightedly down the road.

'Eh, no, Paula, that's just a skanger.'

'Oh. I'm sad.'

Sigh. 'I'm sad too.'

Supernatural had long been one of Paula's only true loves. Aoife had never really jumped on that bandwagon, but at this stage had a rudimentary knowledge of it.

She kicked a bottle out of her path.

'Paula, this sucks! Seriously, if we're not careful, we're going to turn into placid old biddies, and marry a set of bankers wearing matching pin-stripes and _never _see the world, or have adventures, or tackle-glomp hot guys! We need a lift! Some excitement! Something … something …'

'Hey look!' Paula yelled, cutting Aoife off, and jabbing at the air again, but this time, to a huge bill-board, plastered with a large eye-catching sign, advertising a miraculous chance, a "once-in-a-lifetime" opportunity to see the inside of the wonderful Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory, and to be guided by he, the man, himself through this labyrinth of wonder and amazement, all

'Just below that billboard is one big-ass seagull! Seriously! It's like, the size of a cat! Jesus!'

Aoife's mouth was hanging unattractively wide open.

'Oh my sweet Jesus, Paula … do you see what I see?'

Paula took a double-take.

'Um … the seagull?'

'No! The sign about the chocolate factory!'

Paula was silent for a moment, reading, before exclaiming, 'OH MY GOD!! CHOCOLATE!!' in such a loud pitch that more than a few passers-by turned and stared unashamedly, including the Dean-skanger, to whom Paula paid no attention whatsoever, her lips moving silently as she read the sign, which was odd, because normally she didn't do that. But then again, she was having a pretty odd day.

'AOIFE!! We have to find a golden ticket,' Paula told her, gripping her shoulders. Aoife looked a little nervous.

'Eh … Paula … am I the only one thinking that that is most likely a huge scam? They've made, to date two movies about the book, 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory' by Roald Dahl. But this is real; a real ad. Well, "real" … most likely fake. So, I'm getting rather a shivery spine … Paula? PAULA, COME BACK!! I CAN'T GET INTO YOUR HOUSE WITHOUT YOU!'

And so, Aoife gave up and trotted after Paula.

Though she didn't mention it for a while, the nagging creepy sense that there was something extraordinarily wrong with the situation never left Aoife. Or at least, not for a very long time.

A very, very long time.

oOo

Paula slammed the piece of paper onto her kitchen table, and Aoife jumped, before sighing.

'God, Paula, drama much? Phone-calling here … hey! It's Aoife. Yeah, I'm good … you? Oh, that's good. Oh … oh, that's not good. Oh. Ouch. How long before you walk again … oh. Oh. Maybe never, you say. Ouch. Well, did they get the knife out … oh. Oh. Maybe never, you say … And the fist? Well. Um … did you know about the chocolate contest?'

Aoife cringed, as the babble on the other end was noticeable even to Paula.

'Right. Okay, well … see you around, sweetie … okay … feel better … bye …'

Aoife stabbed the end-call button, and moaned.

'How did we not know about this? How could the internet let me down like this? I _need _to go.'

'Yeah! Me, too.'

Paula picked up the paper again, just to have the effect of slamming it on the table again. Aoife sighed, and got up to steal some of Paula's families' communal pop-tarts as ever. By this stage, she was convinced Margaret, Paula's mother, bought them specifically for her.

She saw Paula's elbow moving quickly as she popped the tart and made a strong pot of tea. Placing the teapot on the table, and pulling her pop-tart closer, \nd reaching behind her to toss a bar of chocolate in her direction, Aoife inspected Paula's drawing, or at least tried to, before Paula ripped it off the table with a flourish, throwing her yellow crayon down on the table, and beaming.

'Behold, my friend, our ticket to our destinies!'

Aoife blinked sceptically.

In Paula's hand was an A4 sheet of paper, coloured streakily yellow with a very waxy crayon, with

GOLDIN TICKET TO CHOCO FACTORY

written across it in Paula's scrawling hand.

'Um … Paula? There's no 'I' in 'golden', you know.'

Paula said nothing, took the sheet back, and fixed something, before handing it back to Aoife. It then read,

EN  
GOLDIN ^ TICKET TO CHOCO FACTORY

'Eh … right. Well, then … we're sorted so,' Aoife said, feeling rather confused, and running quickly through various other plans for sneaking in, or sobbing convincingly to garner pity at the gates, or –

'Hey, Paula? Where the feck is this factory, anyway?'

'Iuhno,' Paula mumbled through a mouthful of chocolate, and shrugged, breaking off a square and tossing it at Aoife, who promptly missed, and the chocolate went skittering onto the ground behind her, to be eaten by the family dog, Rox-C. But Aoife didn't notice. Nor would she have cared, if she _had _noticed.

Her attention was a mite preoccupied by the suspiciously golden glint from the chocolate wrapper in Paula's hand.

She couldn't say anything, or make any kind of cognitive sense at all, really, but luckily, Paula knew her well enough to recognise that the shaking finger, raised to point tremulously towards her chocolate bar might be pointing out an important plot point.

Which it was. Paula raised the bar to look at it at eye-level, before squinting, and, grasping it between forefinger and thumb and carefully extracting it from the foil. Aoife forgot to breathe as the thin sheet of beaten gold wobbled in her hand. Paula peered at it, and then to Aoife as if asking advice, before distrustfully back to the ticket, and then to her own sheet, and readying her arm to toss the gold behind her.

'NO, PAULA!' Aoife cried, diving forwards and snatching the ticket from her hands, and surveying it, panting.

Paula looked affronted, and chucked some more chocolate into her mouth.

Aoife skimmed over the text quickly, not taking much in, knowing the general gist already, but stopping when she saw the date.

'WOW!! Paula, this tour thing is on January the 17th! That's two days from now! And it's in London! WE HAVE TO GO, LIKE, NOW!!'

And with that, Aoife leaped up, and Paula stumbled to follow suit, as Aoife glanced over the rest of the text.

'It says we need a kid with us …'

Aoife's eyes lit up.

'Paula! You can be the kid! You're not eighteen for a good while yet.'

'I'm eighteen in four days, Aoife.'

'… and I can be your guardian. Yes … yes, that'll do nicely.'

She looked Paula over critically for a moment, all five foot five inches of her, from her dolly-shoed toes to her violently curly hair, and then frowned at the obviously well-applicated eye-liner, mascara, and by this stage, green-eye-shadow, before shaking her head.

'But we have to make you look young … hmm … we can do this. We can totally do this. Okay, Paula, we pack your stuff really quickly, then we go to mine and pack, and then we go to London. We'll be fine. What's the worst that could happen?'

As she shepherded Paula towards a suitcase, for a brief moment, Aoife pondered her words gravely. Perhaps those were not the smartest words she could have uttered.

The fact bothered her for one and a half seconds, tops, before she fought her mobile out of her pocket and dialled a number.

'Hi, mum? Yeah, just to say, I'm running away to London with Paula to go to a chocolate factory …'

xXx

**A/N: Just to tell you, yep, I'm Aoife, ShiverySox is Paula. There you go. But we're not Sues. I'm not that kind. However, I am an impoverished drama student. And Paula is an aggressive artist. I hope you like it. I think CATCF fandom could do with us. We don't have Suish qualitites. We're just quite comedic when the moment strikes us.**

**Hope you likey, my loves! Review and I'll update yoo! If you would like to appear in the next chapter, just yell, and in you'll go. Mwa! -Wraithlike**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Charlie, or his Chocolate Factory. Roald Dahl does. However, I once alluded to Johhny Depp in an interview ...  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**Agus, aris ... notai faoi an sceal!**

~Heathrow May Never Recover~

oOo

Aoife sometimes found time to be unduly thankful to her drama teacher for insisting she dredge up painful memories in order to get a convincing sob effect going on cue. This little deception worked very well when faced with a young ticket cashier with tightly folded arms and rampant acne.

Aoife once again gloated over the fact that men couldn't deal with tears.

Somehow, anyway, Aoife and Paula found themselves wedged in a single airplane seat (not of the first class variety, Paula having previously invested in a very broken car, and Aoife being an impoverished Irish actress) smiling beatifically at the flummoxed air-hostesses, and trying to look perfectly happy and safe under their one seat-belt. Aoife couldn't breathe, and Paula's hand was wedged behind her back, somehow, but they were actually on their way to England, and Aoife had the ticket stowed safely in her hand-bag, far away from Paula.

A creeping sense of distrust was beginning to sneak through Paula, ever since Aoife had packed for her, being somewhat a control freak, and Paula had not liked what she had seen thrown into the case. But Paula's loud protestations had been quelled by Aoife's promising grin, and the words, 'I'll bribe the taxi-man to let you drive!' in her most wheedling tone.

Granted, thanks to Aoife's bribery, neither could afford even half of one of the over-priced sandwiches for sale in Dublin airport. But they were alive, which was, for Aoife's part, more than she had hoped on the "drive" to the airport.

oOo

_Paula's face was glorious behind the steering wheel, looking perfectly at her ease, stomping the accelerator, with her other foot located somewhere in the general direction of the brake. _

'_What the feck's wrong with you, Aoife? We're making good time … but why is everyone on the wrong side of the road. YOU FOOLS!' Paula yelled out of the rolled down window as yet another car skidded into the ditch to her right._

_Aoife was sitting with vice-like fingers leaving dents in the plastic upholstery of the car-seat, her face white, her eyes wider than was even remotely natural, and her mouth set into a teeth-baring grimace of horror._

'_Ah, lighten up, you big plank. AMADÁN!!' she yelled again, out of the window. In the back seat, the unconscious cabby moaned in his swoon._

'_Jesus, Paula, keep your eyes on the freaking road!'_

'_What? Ah, it's fine. Oh. Oh, that's not good.'_

'_What? WHAT? __**WHAT'S NOT GOOD**__? BECAUSE IF IT'S SOMETHING IMPORTANT …'_

'_Roundabout coming up.'_

'_What's wrong with that?'_

'_I never could get the hang of turning left …'_

_Paula turned to Aoife, causing a violent spurt of panic as her eyes left the road for a long, dramatic pause._

'_Brace yourself.'_

oOo

Aoife didn't think she would ever truly recover, but the art student within was delighting in this new dark memory, and all of it's possible future uses in her art.

_Emotional scars __**aren't cool, **__Aoife! STOP THAT!_

oOo

It was night by the time Aoife and Paula stumbled off the train from the airport into some sleepy little English village. Aoife was relatively sure they were in the right town, and Paula proved her right by sniffing the air rigorously and almost collapsing into a heap at the blissfulness of the chocolatey-good air.

A youth hostel grudgingly admitted them as the church bells tolled dismal midnight. The woman at the desk frowned at them, as Paula tossed a handful of complimentary mints back, before making an odd gargling noise and racing away to spit them into some unfortunate potted plant. Aoife tried to detract attention from Paula 'The State' by grinning winningly at the woman.

'So, um … how much for a room for two?'

The woman stared, uncomprehending.

'This is a hostel, not a castle, princess.'

Aoife pouted, and her face fell murderously.

'Fine. How much for some flea-infested sack of crap to sleep on?'

'Probably more expensive than the dormitory,' the woman sighed, looking pained. Aoife pounced.

'What, what? It's _cheap_? How cheap?' she demanded, as Paula continued to hack up confectionary distractingly.

If the woman was unnerved by the steel in the sweet teenage eyes, she didn't let it show. She leaned closer.

'Very cheap. But I warn you … it's full of fan-girls,' she explained, tapping her nose significantly. Aoife drew back, nodding, and pulled her beat-up wallet from her pocket.

'This,' she said, holding it up, 'is ten euros. For this princely sum, I will take lodgings here this night and cure your fan-girl problem. Give me fifteen minutes, and you can sleep without having to worry about them setting the place on fire.'

The woman examined her for a moment, before ripping the note from her palm.

'Done,' she said, slipping it into the register, and sloping away, glancing disinterestedly at Paula, who at this point had recovered from the sweets, and was instead trying to gauge how hard she would have to chuck pencils at the goldfish bowl to elect a response.

Aoife sighed, praying that this would all work out worth incurring her mother's wrath in the end, and, hooking an arm around Paula's throat deftly, and dragging her backwards to the foreboding door at the end of the corridor, ignoring her spluttering noises of distaste, and the flow of conversation in Irish issuing franticly from her lips.

'Paula,' she said, seriously, as they reached the door.

'Try to concentrate. I know it's late, and your attention span is somewhat limited to how much destruction you can cause before your mind wanders. Just hear me out, 'kay?'

Paula nodded, seriously, as she unconsciously began trying to murder Aoife with the power of her thoughts, before switching to trying to tap-dance the floor away.

'Okay. Just … just trust me, okay? Just go with it,' she said, speaking the words that had gotten her through every stage performance of her life to that point.

Aoife opened the door.

It was … hideous.

At least twenty girls sat on cheap single-beds, chattering, and screaming and squeeing and discussing, dressed in varying shade of nightwear, mostly pink and black with slogans and names written across them. Every plug-point was jammed with connectors allowing for at least four other plugs to use the one socket, and modems were strewn across the floor. On almost every fan-girls lap sat a lap-top, and as they chattered to their neighbours, most were typing away goodo.

Aoife didn't have to get any nearer to hear the conversations.

" … so I'm just hoping that in the fourth one, Eragon and Murtagh really WILL turn gay! I mean, CP said that he …'

' … and I called my OC Princess Amarië Cúthalion Undomiel. She's Arwen's sister, and Legolas's girlfriend, and, oh! yeah, she's also having an affair with Eomer, but she's not a Sue! I'm making her die tragically in Legolas's arms in the next chapter …'

' … so _I _said, NO WAY! There is _no way _that Bella and Edward were meant to be together. Bella and Jasper were made for each other. Edward and Bella's secret younger sister were made for each other. Oh, didn't you know about her? Well, I actually made her up. I named her after myself, and basically gave her all my own traits …'

'… well, that's the only reason I'm here! I think seeing Charlie/Wonka in action might inspire some new stories! I'm adding to my C2, soon, you know …'

Aoife was horrified. It was like walking into a room lined with twisted mirrors – they showed you, but in a warped, odd way. Aoife knew for a fact that she wasn't that bad … but she could see herself in every one of those girls. And it scared her. The slogans on their t-shirts only made the 'Team Jacob!' badge on her bag feel heavier. Every word about Arwen and Legolas's secret child only made her heavily annotated copy of the Lord of the Rings feel bigger. And the 'Save Ginny Weasley' blaring from someone's speakers made her own iPod feel ostentatious and irregular.

'Hi!!' the nearest girl bounced up from her bed, her long blondish hair swishing as her head moved, looking unnaturally like a doll from the nineteen fifties, with huge greenish eyes, rosy cheeks and a shiny smile. She was dressed in pink pyjamas, so pink that Aoife had to fight the urge to blink and shield her eyes, from the shininess. Aoife was expecting her to suddenly launch into Japanese and become an animated school-girl from something like Deathnote, any minute.

'Hi!!' she said, again, and Aoife could already guess her name.

She'd be called Mary Jane. She's be Team Edward, and fall in love with the first guy she found who played the piano. Slash would scare her, and femmeslash would freak the shit out of her. She wouldn't swear, and all of her OC's would be girls with tragic pasts who were really 'special' or princesses.

'I'm Carley,' she said, and grinned, wider. _Awww, _Aoife's subconscious mind told her. The girl was ridiculously adorable. She was totally a human chibi child.

A girl skulked out from beside her, with something sheepish about her smile. What could be seen of it, anyway. Behind her hugely massive fringe (or was it her hair? The two melded together without any real distinction) (Aoife was jealous) hazel eyes seemed to wonder what the hell she was doing there. In contrast to good old MJ, newbie was wearing dark pjs, with 'I _am _the Nightmare Before Christmas' written across them, and gloves with no fingers. Aoife's irritation returned like an old friend.

'I'm … Sive,' she said, and Paula wondered how you would spell that, noting the girl down as 'sieve' in her mental book of people. It was a large mental book, but has met with an unfortunate accident about seven years back, something Paula privately referred to as 'The Great Mental Fire of '05'. The same fire had destroyed most her sanity, and a good deal of her tact. She found she was better off without both.

'Welcome to the family!' Carley sang, clapping her hands excitedly.

Aoife ignored her, depositing her bag on the nearest unoccupied bed. Paula, awake now, hastened to follow.

'Jesus, Aoife, they're all freaking fan-girls! Aghh!'

'Don't worry; I have a plan.'

'Good. I'll ready my sporks,' Paula said, seriously, and turned back to her bag. Aoife tried not to think what she could mean, by turning quickly back to Chibi 1 and Goth 2.

'Do you want to role-play with us!' Carley sang, proffering her lap-top, as Sive did a little happy-dance. The fan-girls laughed, and called encouragement. Aoife calmly handed the little silver thing back, and crossed her arms.

'Okay, ladies, enough. I have a few things to say, so I'm just going to go out there and say them.

'Number one, Paula and I will be attending the chocolate factory tomorrow. We will be entering, in the company of Willy Wonka, and all those other little freaks. We will, and we would like a good night's sleep beforehand. So all of you are going to shut your traps, and listen well.'

The fan-girls looked terrified. Out of their minds, terrified. Aoife felt rather smug.

'I am that sarky bitch who sporked your fan-fictions until you burst into dramatic fan-girl tears. I am that girl who sat in front of you in Twilight and spoke all the lines over all the actors, simply because I can. I'm that girl who left a link to the Mary Sue litmus test in my review of your fiction. I'm that girl who hates Edward and Bella's relationship for all it stands for, and who argues vehemently against you in chat-rooms. I'm that girl who does everything you hate on the internet.'

Aoife's face cracked into a smile, languishing in the palpable terror of these girls, clumped together for support.

'I am a mod,' she said, calmly, and waited for the screams obviously building within the fan-girls in terror of her to break out.

But something happened. What the fan-girls had truly been in horror of, as they watched it approach, leaping stealthily from wall to windowsill chose that moment to leap lithely through the air, a blur of insane prowess and brilliance.

Mary Jane's scream pierced the silence, with Sive and her clinging together in terror.

Aoife froze, her eyes wide, her muscles locked, before slowly, slowly turning to see Paula crouched on her back, clinging to her neck with one arm, dressed from head to toe in the black garb of what appeared to be a ninja, perfectly balanced and still, her mask firmly in place.

But in her hand, instead of the traditional nunchaku, were two sporks linked by a thick chain.

The effect was truly terrifying.

'Silence, puny mortals,' the ninja-Paula snarled, brandishing her spork-chaku threateningly, 'or else I'll kill you all with my fingers while you sleep. Like those sheep I'll buy when I'm a cailin saibhir, cosuil le Gwen.'

Aoife didn't move until the fan-girls dived their quilts in terrified silence, and neither did Paula. The lights went off, and they stood sentinel in the dark silence.

And then Aoife fell backwards. Paula was pretty heavy, when she was clinging to your spine.

xXx

**A/N: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PAULA!! HAVE THE BESTEST, BESTEST, BESTEST FOUR BROTHERS FOREVER BIRTHDAY EVER!! LUV YOU!!**

**So. This is for good old ShiverySox on her** **birthday, but I hope the rest of you enjoy. 'Specially MJ and Emo-in-Denial. NEXT UP!! Plot ... oh dear ... **


End file.
